


Invisible String

by dispatchwithlove



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Garrus as Archangel, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dispatchwithlove/pseuds/dispatchwithlove
Summary: Shepard dies on the Normandy, and wakes up two years later with no memory. She sets out to recruit Archangel, who inexplicably draws her in and dismantles all her reservations.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Comments: 68
Kudos: 89
Collections: Under Construction





	1. Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> Light hiatus while I re-evaluate the quality and style of this piece.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane Shepard meets Archangel and is instantly and inexplicably drawn to the quiet, dangerous turian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song I had on loop while writing this chapter:  
> Before the Fever, by Grimes

She waits for him. Wearing a black hood, low, past her brow because it covers the scarring across her forehead and casts a shadow over the odd, orange glow in her eyes. It doesn’t do much for the glowing scars on her cheeks, though.

And there isn’t much she can do about her voice, either -- softer and smokier than seems normal. The day was well underway, pushing into the night cycle actually, leaving her throat dry and vocal muscles tired. 

She’s not sure what is normal. Cerberus brought her back to life, but she woke up too early. Scars didn’t have time to heal, vocal cords were still unused, yet inexplicably strained. And she has no memory of who she was. They told her everything would go back to normal, though, eventually. Her scars would heal, her vocal cords would heal. Her memory would return, either gradually over time, or something would kick it into action. 

While they are waiting patiently, Shepard wants to find that something that will kick her memory into action. Battle didn’t bring it back and a lost friend named Tali didn’t bring it back. Her belongings in her cabin are foreign and unappreciated. 

Nothing is real. Nothing is normal. And now she’s recruiting a vigilante on the bad side of every one of Omega’s gangs. 

She waits for him in a dark room at his hideout. The lack of light helps to obscure the marks across her body that reveal she was recently nothing more than meat and tubes. Archangel takes his time, leaving her to feel alone, and to question not only who she is, but what she’s doing here. Maybe that’s his intent.

She hears steady, soft footsteps from down the hall that stand in stark contrast to the tall, broad shouldered turian that enters the room, then watches from under her hood as he seeks the chair opposite hers taking long, confident strides. 

He’s a vigilante, a self appointed savior who helps the weak by inflicting calculated pain on those who exploit Omega’s abused and forgotten. He does good. But his tactics show he takes a little too much pleasure in the pain he causes his adversaries. She wonders if she can trust him. 

He takes the chair, turns it around, and sits down, straddling it and bracing his arms against the back railing. He watches her. Cool, blue eyes travel across her face, the lengths of her body, he assesses the weapons she has strapped to her back. Something about the way he looks at her makes her think she’s received his approval. And something about him makes her want that approval. She doesn’t remember much about herself, but she knows approval has never been anything she sought, from anyone, before this moment. 

She peeks at him from under her hood, careful not to reveal too much of the face she thinks must have been beautiful once. He probably thinks she’s trying to be secretive, protect her identity like she expected him to. He’d probably never guess it’s because she’s a soldier with a streak of vanity. 

“Who are you?” he asks calmly, leaning slightly forward as if an invisible string has tied them together and she has drawn him in. His hands hang loosely in front of him, fingers entwined. She takes a moment to assess him in return. Even with his armor on she can tell he’s strong. He wears a visor that probably displays all her vitals. Despite being completely relaxed and at ease, she’s certain he could have her pinned down and compromised before she could pull a trigger or use her biotics. That thought sends thrills up her spine. And although she finds that odd and against her character, she allows herself to dwell on that thought longer than is descent. 

His voice surprises her, although she’s not certain why. It’s deep, and sexy. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of her neck in a very good way. 

“My name’s Jane,” her voice is hoarse so she speaks carefully, and even softer than she had been speaking that morning. Dr. Chakwas is going to have to give her something to soothe the pain. 

His gaze continues to take her in. She feels undressed by him. But it doesn’t make her feel uncomfortable. If he’s undressing her with his eyes, then she’s willingly disrobing and awaiting, hoping for, a look of approval from him. She wonders if this is how he makes others feel, or if there’s something particular about her that's causing such immediate fascination and submissive inclinations. 

“What’s the job?” he hums. 

“Collectors have been spotted in the outer traverse. Abducting colonies.”

“ _Colonies_?” he asks, obviously thinking she misspoke. Strange that he doesn’t question the presence of Collectors, only the extent of their activity. 

“Yes, entire colonies.”

Something familiar about Archangel strikes her and pulls at her gut. Perhaps she knew a turian before she died? Maybe the turian she knew looked like this one, or sounded like him. His deep, husky voice continues to strike a nerve. She listens to every syllable as if it’s a private moment between just the two of them, as if he’s speaking not just to her, but for her. Her muscles begin to tense as their eyes stay locked on each other. 

She allows him a moment to think, watching every thought running through his head expressed through flickers of lights and shadows in his eyes. “Why ask me for help?” His voice hums when he speaks. That’s what’s so delicious to her ears. 

She strokes her throat softly, a vain attempt at easing the strain in her cords. Archangel’s eyes flick hungrily to watch her hand travel down her throat, fingers dragging lazily. Perhaps he finds something intriguing about her as well. 

Perhaps he finds the action appealing. The way his mandibles flicked and he shifted in his seat seems to be a solid confirmation.

“Your voice,” he says, watching her closely, with something that looks like concern and warmth in his eyes. She feels seen. Naked and raw and seen. And he seems somewhat familiar. Like she’s seen those eyes before. Maybe in a past lover? “It sounds strained, something happened to you? Or are you trying to protect your identity?”

“Let’s just say I think I’ve been through a lot recently.”

“You _think_?” She doesn’t feel judged. He’s asking for clarification. 

“‘A lot’ includes losing my memory.”

“What are you doing here?” he quickly asks. 

“Same thing as you, I think,” her voice is a mere breathy whisper now. 

“Trying to die?” A flash of pain jumps over his expression, and something that makes it clear he didn’t mean to say that out loud. So she isn’t the only one disarmed by the presence of the person sitting across from them. He feels some strange energy too. 

Archangel isn’t quite what she expected. Despite the intensity behind his eyes and the way that he carries himself, he’s calm, careful. His operation certainly seems like a legitimate force to go up against. 

But the man sitting in front of her? He seems sad. And instead of a raging sense of justice, he’s resigned to that sadness. 

And yet she also senses a warmth that pulls her in. His presence comforts her. His voice caresses her. 

And his gaze strips her bare, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. 

They spend some time going over the logistics. What the job entails. What he would gain, and what he would expect in return. More so than with anyone else so far, she agrees to give him what he expects. 

“This job is big, and I need people I can trust.”

“You met me five minutes ago,” he replies with a heavy sigh. It sounds like he’s reciting a poem that’s dear to his heart. The words mean something to him. 

“Isn’t that enough time to understand someone?” She speaks truthfully, honestly. Those words come from somewhere deep within her psyche. Like she’s retrieved it from the depths of her soul with a shaking hand. 

He shifts in his chair, leaning back and away from her for the first time since he sat down, a rumble erupting in his chest. It sounds agitated, strained. Sad, even. The sound is a subvocal. Somehow she knows she’s never heard a turian subvocal before. The cybernetics give her advanced hearing, then? She’s fine with that little modification, because his subvocals sound like a beautiful song she had been longing to hear her entire life, without ever knowing it existed. 

“Maybe getting off this station for a while would do you some good?” 

Instead of taking offense at her casual familiarity, he thinks about that. “Yeah, maybe.”

After that he leans back towards her, that string connecting his existence to hers pulls him back in. He is the first thing that has felt normal to her since waking up. 

Glancing at her weapons again, he offers to add a mod to her sniper rifle, saying that the model she carries existing without a specific mod is a shame he’s unwilling to let slide. He takes her to another room, just as secluded and dark. It’s filled corner to corner, floor to ceiling with weapons and ammunition. 

Trusting him implicitly, she watches him as he meticulously takes apart her rifle. And she knows without rhyme or reason that he will protect her. She feels an inexplicable devotion to him, and feels his devotion to her. They've known each other for less than an hour now, and yet she knows him. 

Except that doesn’t make sense. Maybe she doesn’t know him, but she understands him. 

Her eyes still hidden behind her hood, she looks up at him, and he returns her gaze. His eyes fall on hers, exploring the features that remain unhidden -- her lips, her neck, her cheeks and nose. She explores his features in return, admiring the strong curve of his mandibles, the beautiful sweep of his clan marking across the bridge of his nose and down across his cheeks. 

Warmth builds in her chest and deepens into a heat in her core. She’s pulled towards him, not by hands but by something intrinsic that neither of them seem to understand. 

His breath falls against her lips as he leans close to her. His hand finds her hip, where his talon drags lazily over her curves. He’s touching her. She has no idea how it starts, but she’ll lay herself at his feet before she’ll let him stop. 

Even though she’s willing to beg she doesn't have to bare her soul so that he’ll continue touching her. His eager hands grasp her hips, pulling her close and pressing her against his armor. She gasps and grabs his neck, falling into his arms and relying on her hold to keep from falling to her shaking knees. 

They're both breathing heavily. Without hesitation he turns her, presses her against the workbench where her dismantled rifle sits, and he runs his hands along her curves once again. His hands travel over her hips, then one traces up her thigh while the other cups her ass. He leans over her, and breathes in her scent with panting huffs. 

His hands leave her body, and she immediately protests with a heavy breath before she realizes he’s only removing the pieces of armor keeping him from her. She presses her ass against him as he does so, knowing that she’s making his job harder while she teases him to hurry up. He groans as she brushes against him and he grabs her hip. He’s rough, and his talons dig into the fabric of her pants. 

Strangely, the only thing she worries about is him removing her hood, exposing her flaws. The scars and cybernetics are the only parts of her that she wants to hide from him. Everything else about her, every inch of skin and every thought, memory, or fear belongs to him. 

He’s freed from the confines of his armor and quickly tears the hem of her pants down, pulling them over her curves so that he can get to her. 

She moans, her hips inching towards him as he presses against her entrance. She’s already slick and throbbing for him. He pushes into her, filling her and stretching her wide open for him and she knows somehow she’s never been with a turian before. This ecstasy, being so deliciously filled...she would remember something like this. 

The first drag is absolute ecstasy as he pulls almost completely out of her. Her walls and folds protest by clenching tighter to hold him in, causing him to growl and jerk her hips back against his. 

He finds a rhythm, pressing in and dragging out steadily but slowly so that they both moan and gasp. They feel everything together. Every exquisite and maddening moment. 

His thrusts build along with the cadence of the thrumming in his chest. She’s not sure what his subvocals are saying, but she understands it all the same. He’s telling her how good she feels, how he wants to be deeper inside her. How he wants to know every inch of her.

One hand leaves its place on her hip to grab her neck, pulling her head back almost painfully so. Her hood stays in place, thankfully, as it’s the only thing protecting her delicate skin from his un-filed talons. She wants to be handled like this though, wants him to pull at her, and place her exactly where he wants her. She’s giving herself to him, body and mind, so that he’s filled just as she is. Every ounce of her consciousness wants to give him everything he wants, to satisfy him.

His thrusts build, both in pressure and in pace as he pushes into her and drags out of her. She’s moaning, loud and wild, but her head is swimming so she can’t be sure if she should try to quiet herself. 

The pace quickly gets them both near the edge, she can tell she’s about to fall over as heat begins to spread throughout her body, all her muscles clenching. That’s when he begins to slow, and she begs out for him to make her come. 

Her pleas make him growl again, low and thrumming. It tickles her ears and sends her back to the edge. He thrusts once, slow and deep, hitting her exactly where she wants him with his pulsing cock telling her he’s close too. She cries out, ignoring the pain in her strained vocal cords because nothing matters other than the pleasure he is giving her. 

He thrusts again, and this time when she cries out he groans. They fall over the edge together as he gently thrusts them both through their final release. 

They still together, too. Heavy breaths quieting and muscles relaxing. Soft, satisfied pants join together in a rhythm almost as beautiful as his melancholy subvocals.

Before they fully relax, though, his cock stirs within her once again. She answers his returning need by softly rolling her hips against his, telling him she still needs him, too. He flips her around, lifts her to the workbench, wraps her legs around his hips, and presses inside her once again. 

Their rhythm instantly returns, he’s thrusting deep within her loosened walls and she’s holding on to him as if she’s known him like this her entire life. 

It doesn’t take long for her to come again, panting and falling to pieces within his arms. His pace is relentless after that, and it’s all she can do to stay with him. He has completely broken her, she is an open book to him now, and will give him whatever he wants, whatever is in her power to give. 

His hand leaves the small of her back to grasp her throat, cupping it with his palm — but this time he’s careful with his talons as they skate across her delicate skin just under her ears. WIth his nose he nuzzles her jaw, then her cheeks. His crest pushes her hood back, her only defense against his gaze. She begins to fear that her face, and all of the scars and her glowing eyes will be exposed, and that he’ll regret what he’s done with her because of the way she looks. 

He continues to nuzzle her, and that beautiful song of his subvocals returns. They vibrate against her chest. He sounds happy, and desperate for her, which is the only reason she doesn’t protest when he pushes her hood back fully, tugging it down around her neck. Her face is exposed, but instead of allowing her fear and shame to dictate how she feels, she allows herself to relax in his arms and take pride in the pleasure she’s giving him. Head rolling back, she holds him tighter, and wonders, crazily, if this is what love feels like. 

Just as her hood falls he buries his face in the curve of her neck, his thrusts slow for just a brief moment before his hips buck violently into her. 

As he continues to rock gently through the last moments of his orgasm he lifts his head and his gaze falls on her. 

She smiles, but her joy, her elation at how good they made each other feel, is only allowed to last for the briefest second before she sees the look of shock seize the beautiful expression on his face. 

His breath catches, and she instantly regrets letting him remove her hood. He’s unhappy, he’s shocked by her mangled face and glowing eyes. 

As his eyes travel her face his expression becomes something more like fear, or horror. Although she knows her face is alarming, his reaction seems incongruent with the extent of her injuries. All the same, she frantically pulls the hood back up, trying to shield herself from his horrified gaze. 

Desperate to see her face, he only pulls it right back down though, her human strength no match to his turian strength. His hand is on her shoulder, squeezing tightly. Painfully, even. 

His mandibles spread and lips part, but no words come out as his frantic eyes travel her face. “Shepard,” he whispers, though she knows she never mentioned her last name. 

The words she spoke to him earlier, _Isn’t that enough time to understand someone?_ She hears those words in his voice. With a cocky grin he once said them to her. Standing on the Citadel. When they first met. 

_You met me less than an hour ago._ She hears those words, so similar to what he said to her earlier, but in her own bright, undamaged voice. He had asked to join her crew. 

Recognition turns her stomach. She knows him. Or knew him. She looks up at him, no longer trying to hide her face. 

With his gaze free to roam her face, he examines her features with his sharp eyes. “Commander,” he finally says, his voice now as hoarse as hers from the shock. He already seems distant and closed off from her. The look in his eyes, embarrassment and regret, makes her heart ache. He’s still within her arms, and she’s within his, but knowing he’s about to pull away she already misses him.

He seems barely able to breathe, and unable to look her in the eye. Something inside him changes. A glimmer of a deferential recruit flashes over him, battling with the hardened, cruel vigilante he’d been just moments earlier. “You’re alive?”

  
  
  



	2. Cut Me Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when she's not by his side, Shepard is drawn to her turian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song I had on loop while writing this chapter:  
> Before the fever, by Grimes
> 
> This song is definitely my mood for this story, I wrote chapter 1 and 2 in a single night each while listening to that song.

Archangel’s hand is cupping her jaw, the other still wrapped around her waist holding her tight while his hips are tucked in between her thighs. And he’s still inside her, though noticeably the pressure that had stretched her so deliciously subsides. 

His ice-blue eyes are sharp and intimidating, scanning her eyes, mouth, nose, cheeks. He’s looking for proof while the look of horror on his face melts into one of disbelief. 

“You know me?” she asks. 

“Shepard,” he repeats her name, removing his trembling hand from her jaw. “What...what is this?” He’s falling apart as his body begins to recoil from hers. Guilt stains his expression as he pulls out of her like he’s committed an intrusion. As if he has violated her. His eyes can’t meet hers while he slides out. She wants to reverse time so that she can hold him close again, and see need and warmth in his eyes instead of this shame. 

She feels something for him. It’s not pity. Protective, maybe? Like she wants to shield him from this spiral. How quickly he turned from a confident, ruthless killer to a trembling, shocked, and speechless shell. Because of her. And he had been so commanding, so in charge and steeled. Now he looks at her with deference. Yearning to protect this strong, beautiful man, her arms threaten to pull him back in to offer solace. But that’s not what he wants. 

“How do you know me?” Shepard asks, realizing she sounds very much like a CO when she says it. Her defenses are up again, and she's no longer bare. 

“I served…” he nearly choked as he took a moment to swallow. He pulls his pants up around his hips and fastens them closed with agile flicks of his wrists and fingers as his eyes narrow, his brows twisted in pain. He knew her, knew her well. And this, having sex with her specifically, is uncomfortable for him. “I served under you. The Normandy.”

“You served in the Alliance?” She asks, confused why a turian would have served under her in the human military. 

He just shakes his head, leaning back against a table that’s littered with gun mods and explosives components. “Spirits, what are you doing here?” his voice is a rough, deep whisper. 

_Isn’t that enough time to understand someone?_ She hears those words play in her head again. And again. _A flash of his face, trees behind him, blooming and gently flooded in lights._ Her heart smiles while the memory returns to her. She knows that her heart had also smiled when he said that to her. When the trees were blooming behind him and he asked to leave with her and to fight by her side. He was eager and cocky...and so much lighter. He’s now weighed down by something. Burdens or memories or regret? But when was that? 

Only bits and pieces come back to her, but she’s desperate to remember more. She has to remember him. She has to latch on to this one tie to who she is. “You worked for C-Sec?” she asks, hesitant, not quite trusting her memory. 

Those words seem to sting because his shoulders tense and his mandibles draw tight, but she isn’t sure why. “Fuck, you really don’t remember anything?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.” 

“ _Fuck,”_ he breathes out. “What are you doing here?” His eyes travel her face again, “it’s really you, though? What happened to you? Were you actually dead?” 

“Jacob said...he said I was meat and tubes when they found me.”

Archangel winces at that. It hurts him, though it doesn’t hurt her because she doesn’t remember. But he does. Then his eyes narrow, “Who’s Jacob?” he asks, his tone instantly protective and angry.

“He works for Cerberus, I left a lab...the lab where they worked on me...with him and Miranda.”

His anxious eyes look down at her body then back up at her several times. She looks down and realizes her pants are still dangling from one ankle, one boot discarded and cast to the side somewhere. ”Have we never…” she begins to ask, but the look in his eyes makes her embarrassed to say it. She pulls her pants up past her knees, jerks them over her hips, and regains some of her commanding presence. “Have we had sex before?” she finally manages to say. 

“ _No,”_ he blurts out. “No, definitely not.”

She nods, pulling her hood back over her head and carefully adjusting it so that her scars and eyes are obscured once again. His looks, the shame that clouds the energy between them and has frayed what pulled them to each other has caused her vanity to return. She retrieves her boot from the floor and pulls it on. When she looks back up at him, peeking from under the hood, he’s peering down, trying to look under her hood to lock his worried gaze with hers. Why is he finally ready to look her in the eye just as she’s ready to hide once again? 

“What happened to you?” His voice nearly cracks, laden with concern and grief, which confuses her. If they weren’t lovers, why does she mean so much to him?

“I look different, hm?” She feels her finger gliding down her cheek, following the groove of a scar before she realizes the tick is a siren of insecurity. To keep from doing it again she fists her hand and locks it next to her hip while hoping he wasn't reading into her clear signs of uncertainty and fear. 

“Jacob and Miranda said I died, on a ship I commanded. The Normandy. I died in space during an attack.”

“Then how are you here, Shepard?” His voice is nearly pleading for an explanation, and it breaks her heart. She wants to give him peace, and comfort. 

“They said Cerberus brought me back to life. Experimental technology.”

“You were... your body was…” he pauses to take a breath, struggling with whatever he’s thinking and trying to say. “Some footage got out. _There wasn’t anything to bring back_ ,” he reasons with her, and he looks ill after his words leave his mouth. He can’t believe this and wants her to doubt it too.

Betraying her resolve to avoid bringing attention to the damage to her face, she allows a finger to drag over the glowing scars in her cheek, then she leans her head back slightly and points to a glowing eye. “Cybernetics. I think I’m half machine now,” she tries to joke, but a knot forms in her throat as she says it, also reminding her of the strain that had been bothering her before sex with him chased away all her pains and worries. “If you think my face looks bad, you should see the rest of my body.” After saying that she reminds herself that he has, but reasons that maybe he wasn’t looking at her legs and hips as he was fucking her. Despite the shame, her heart leaps at the thought of him pressing into her, of his talons digging into her hips. 

His eyes carefully watch her, sharp and thoughtful. He’s trying to work this out. A long silence between them drags on, disarming her. 

“I remember something, but not...who, exactly, you were.” She struggles, trying to force the memory back. “You were on my crew when I went after Saren?” She’s read the reports, so she knew that much about her past.

“I was _by your side_ the day you stopped Saren. I was with you, every step of the way.” 

The report flashes through her mind. _A name, Liara...that was the asari with her. A second name. A turian. He dug her out of the rubble._

The second name recorded in the report finally comes to mind. “Garrus?” she asks softly. 

His eyes flash towards the door, then back at her. “Please, they don’t know my name here.”

“Your crew doesn’t know your name?”

He shakes his head and crosses her arms. “Who would follow a failed C-Sec officer and Spectre drop-out?” His tone is bitter. He’s disappointed in himself. Shame just continues to build in his demeanor and expression. 

“Why are you here?” she repeats the question she asked earlier, hoping to get a clearer answer than an allusion to suicide. He seems too good for this place, and she doesn’t understand why he calls himself a failure and a dropout. She knows that he’s capable and strong, and good, She knows him, but maybe he doesn't know himself. She promises to help him see who he really is. The irony that she doesn’t know who she is, literally, is not lost on her. But she’s going to help him find himself, regardless. 

His eyes fall from her. He stands up quickly and in two quick strides, he’s back at the counter, skilled, agile hands reassembling her rifle. “Couldn't quite keep myself together after...” he finally mutters, eyes flicking to her briefly, but doesn’t finish his thought. Without him saying it, she knows he means after her death. That yearning to take him into her arms rears again. She fists her hands to keep herself from reaching out to him across this unbearable divide that keeps him at length. 

She watches him work quickly. “Will you still come with me?” she asks, afraid of the desperation in her voice. Somehow she knows this is unlike her, the neediness, the attachment to him that she felt the moment he sat down with her. Not at all what one would expect from a commanding officer. Maybe it makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it makes him doubt that she’s who she says she is. But she can’t hide it. If he says no she’s going to be shaken. She’s going to doubt herself and question her ability to conquer the Collectors.

His hands still for a moment, but his eyes don’t meet hers. “Of course.”

“You still want to? Even knowing who I am now?” 

His hands resume their work. “Shepard, I’d follow you to hell. Of course I’m coming with you. And now I have a reason to. I don’t give a damn about money, but I will always fight by your side.”

Her heart swells, but more than that...that tie between them leaps up, winds around her, and digs its roots in. She keeps herself from smiling, though, and nods instead. 

“I...I appreciate it. I need you out there with me.” She has the impulse to knock her fist against his armor but resists. Familiarity and uncertainty swirl, confusing her. 

“You don’t remember me, Shepard,” he points out.

“I know I need you.” It’s all she knows. All that she’s certain of. 

A moment passes between them, silence, but somehow now it’s a comfortable silence. He finishes his work on her rifle, then picks it up and hands it to her, careful to avoid touching her hand with his. 

As she straps it to her back she tucks the hood even closer to her face as a nervous habit. His eyes watch her do it, and she wishes she wasn’t glowing and disfigured. Or at least not so insecure about it. It makes her feel weak. She clears her throat, but softly to avoid any further strain.

“I have to go pick up a doctor in the quarantine zone. Meet me at the docks at the start of the night cycle?”

Crossing his arms he nods, leaning his hip against the counter and stretching his neck side to side, then rolling his shoulders. A sensation tingles up the back of her neck and her breath catches, making her wonder how they never had sex before because the way she feels about him, the way her body reacts just thinking about him, can’t be new. 

“You’re sure you want to come?” she asks, giving him one last chance to say no.

He nods, looking more confident and less shaken, less like an unsure recruit and more like the vigilante that sauntered into the room and straddled a chair while his piercing eyes studied her. 

“I’ll see you on the ship then?”

“What’s the ship's name?” Of course, he needs to know which ship to board. 

“The Normandy.”

He finds that amusing and looks a little lighter. “Hm, Cerberus thinks they can manipulate you with shiny, nostalgic toys.”

She shrugs. “I’d need to remember it to be manipulated. I don’t remember anything about the ship, but the pilot is happy with it. Calls it his baby.”

His mandibles spread slightly, showing a bit of joy as he asks, “Joker is back too?”

She answers with an indifferent nod. “I don’t remember him, though.”

“Anyone else from the old crew on board?”

“Yes, several people, but I don’t remember them either.” She sounds like a glitched vid. 

“What _do_ you remember?” he asks, sadness creeping back into his voice. 

“Just you,” she says before looking him square in the eye, a moment passes between them as she tries to understand why he’s the only thing she remembers. Why him? Why this turian and why does she feel so pulled in by him? Based on his expression, she thinks he might be asking the same question. Neither says anything, though, so she turns to leave, and as she walks out of the room something tugs at her, begging her to not leave his side. 

_____________

The further she gets from Archangel, from Garrus, the more it tugs at her and begs her to return to him. While Miranda, Jacob, and Shepard move through the quarantine zone, Shepard’s concentration is divided between her mission and the turian she left behind. She worries about him. She knows it’s pathetic, but she misses him

Other than a single quip from Miranda, her unsteady concentration isn’t noticeable and doesn't lead them into any sticky situations. They’re a force to reckon with, the three of them, moving quickly, striking down any opposition, and stepping over the bodies to press on. 

The only thing she thinks they’re missing is long-range capabilities. Having to get in close slows them down, and a trained sniper would come in handy. She has her rifle, which she uses, but only to minor effect despite the kick in power the new mod provides. Her aim isn’t what she’d like. And then she remembers Garrus. _A rifle on his shoulder, kneeling behind a crate and she’s at his side, talking to him as he effortlessly plucks off enemies._ She remembers that he’s a sniper. She smiles.

They get to the doctor in no time, which pleases Shepard because being away from her turian creates a disorienting strain that she is anxious to relieve. She doesn't know why it exists. Maybe because he is the only thing she remembers, but his presence was grounding like nothing else she has experienced since she woke up in an unfamiliar lab. The only other sensation that feels natural to her is the tingle of her biotics and the weight of a pistol in her hand as she leads her team.

At the clinic, she speaks with Dr. Solus, and he quickly agrees to come with them. “Will you be able to come back with us now, or would you like some time, Dr. Solus? I’d like to leave the dock tonight, if possible,” she tells him, her voice no longer recognizable, just a painful rasp that makes her desperate for relief. 

“No time needed. Can go now, just need a few things,” Dr. Solus tells her. The way he talks makes her smile. She’s noticed that she feels lighter after meeting Archangel -- and remembering Garrus. 

Garrus. Garrus Vakarian. She repeats his name, knowing it and remembering it, not just recalling it from a report. She’s smiling easily now. 

Shepard sighs, thankful that their recruit is as quick about getting to the ship as her anxious nerves want him to be, and they only have to wait a few moments while he gathers up some medical supplies, a few datapads, and some personal items. The four of them are leaving his clinic before she knows it, and that strained binding pulling her back to Garrus eases.

As they exit the quarantine zone an explosion in a nearby ward echoes through the atmosphere, they all freeze and look in the direction, seeing a great ball of fire blasting through a building. 

Shepard’s breath catches, pain piercing her while the tie to him coils around her, pulling at her gut. It tightens as her mind races, begging the explosion to not to be true. 

“Back to Archangel's base, now,” she commands as loud as her voice will allow. Her team, including Dr. Solus, takes off at a mad sprint. 

_____________

They arrive at the base in time to see gang members and mercs setting up barricades and moving in heavy equipment one would use in a full-on siege. 

“Move in like we belong here, we’ll blend in with the mercs,” Shepard orders, holding her throat as if that will help the searing pain. 

Her plan works easy enough, and they press through quickly, reaching the last barricade in time to see a group of mercs leap over. Shepard rushes after them, pulling herself easily over the barricade and trusting her team to do so as well. She picks off mercs from behind and they don’t even realize what’s happening. By the time a few figure it out, her team is behind her and they are laying waste to the entire group of unlucky bastards. Biotics, tech, and gunshots blurring together in a frenzy of domination. The bridge is littered with dead bodies, taken out before her team even arrived. She looks up to the base’s balcony, and a turian is perched, rifle at his shoulder and eyes trained down a scope. Glancing at the bodies, she notices most are littered with pristine headshots. Her eyes travel back to Garrus. Seeing him, she feels minor relief washing over her and knows he feels it too. 

Her team is in his base and they quickly tick off the remaining mercs holed up behind crates and couches. She rushes up the stairs, battle fatigue finally settling in. She’s been going for hours now, and can’t wait to get her and Garrus back on her ship. She needs to see his face, to know he’s alright. The promise of his presence tugs her along when her legs tell her they’ve had enough. 

Rounding the corner at the top of the stairs, she feels the blast first. Rattling the very foundation holding the base up. Then she hears it, a deafening boom that throws her to the side. She hears curses fly from her team. She feels her heart drop and her stomach turn, her mind once again pleading that this can’t be happening. 

But she knows he’s still with her, she feels him. Once she’s back on her feet her connection to him pulls her forward again. 

She stumbles into the room he’d been holed up in, eyes searching desperately for him, but she hears him before she sees him. A sickening wheeze amongst the silence sends panic coursing through her body. Seeing him on the floor, she falls to her knees and collapses next to him, her hands and knees sliding in the slick blood slowly pooling beneath him. 

Finally by his side, the pulling and straining in her gut eases and she can feel his life force surge because she has returned to him. She no longer feels frantic tugging guiding her back to him, but now _she_ is frantic. Her hands cradle his head, and his eyes shoot open to look at her. She opens her mouth, but when she tries to speak nothing comes out. Her voice is spent, it has nothing left. 

Without her voice, she uses her eyes to tell him what she’s desperate to say. Dr. Solus joins her side and is quick to work. As the roar of the machine that did this to him nears she hears gunfire and sees the light of biotics, then a crash. Miranda calls for a pickup. 

Shepard stays tied to Garrus. She doesn’t move. She barely blinks because she only has her eyes to tell him he isn’t allowed to disconnect himself from her. He can’t leave her.

Her breaths are frenzied as his slow. Her eyes stay locked on his as his begin to take longer and longer to open after each blink

Miranda brings her a bottle of water, and as Dr. Solus works on Garrus, Shepard takes a greedy sip, minor relief washing over her vocal cords. As she struggles to take a deep breath in, his face flashes in her memory. _He leaned over her, hands entwined with hers, and pulled her up, rubble pressing her down. ‘Where do you…’ he said to her._ The memory dies at that point so she can’t remember what he said as he smiled down at her and pulled her out of the rubble. 

But she grasps at the memory. What did he say to her? _He smiled. He reached out to her and pulled her up. ‘Where do you think…’_

Returning her hands to cradle his head, she thinks she remembers and leans down, resting her lips right next to his ear because she’s afraid he still won’t hear her. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” she whispers and then smiles at him. The words, although they feel like jagged rocks dragging against her cords, are familiar. They ground her and remind her to hold on tight so he can't drift too far from her. 

After she whispers, his eyes open again, a shuddering breath rising in his chest that makes her heart jump. A tie between them pulls at her just as if his hands grasped it, and tugged with full force. He’s not going to leave her. 

Just as quickly as his eyes opened, they shut again. Losing that connection, her eyes travel along his body trying to assess his injuries while she also tells herself he’ll be just fine. She feels open, unprotected, and raw. As if she is splayed out and the whole galaxy can just crawl inside and tear her apart.

But right where she is cut open and vulnerable to everything that could take her down, a knot is exposed. It is tied tight and anchored deep within the depths of her body and her soul. It grounds whatever is connecting her to him. She hears their transport arrive, and won’t allow herself to think that she might lose him. 


	3. One Single Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As memories return Shepard begins to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs I had on loop:  
> Before the fever, Grimes (again)  
> Cellophane, FKA Twigs

“Alright, full physical. And pull that hood down, please, I’d like to see your face.”

Obeying the doctor’s orders, Shepard sits down on an exam table and pulls the hood down. Her eyes flick anxiously to where Garrus is, although Dr. Chakwas has a curtain drawn so she can’t actually see him. But she knows he’s there, at least. She can hear the steady beeps proving his heart is still beating. The knot inside her tells her he’s close and still with her. 

“Something wrong with your stomach or abdomen?” Dr. Chakwas asks.

Shepard shakes her head no, then realizes her hand is held tight against her waist, right where she feels that knot. She wants to tell Dr. Chakwas that what she feels there is comforting, and not disturbing in the least, but she decides to keep it all to herself while gently removing her hand and placing it on the table. 

“Don’t worry about him. Dr. Solus was immensely helpful and we have the best equipment on this ship. Plus, Garrus is a tough bastard. He’d probably be up right now if I didn’t have him heavily sedated.”

Shepard doesn't say anything, she just watches Dr. Chakwas talk and type on her omni-tool. She wants to believe the doctor’s words. Worry keeps her mouth shut.

Dr. Chakwas watches her carefully, probably concerned she hasn’t responded. “How is your throat feeling? Any better?” Shepard is relieved that Chakwas is only worried about her throat, and not concerned about her mental state. Rightfully, someone should be. But if they were, Shepard would have to confront some uncomfortable truths.

“Better, thank you.”

“Give it a few days. Should be ship-shape by then. Now…” Dr. Chakwas stops typing and slaps her hands to her knees, ready to start her examination with more energy than Shepard can muster at the moment. “Aches? Pains? Broken bones? You were down there quite a while, do you think you were exposed to anything we should worry about?” 

Shepard looks at her, a bit confused. “No. I feel fine. And I’m not sure what I could have been exposed to. Viruses?”

Chakwas laughs, mischief in her eyes and her smile. “Well, it _is_ Omega. Afterlife is basically a brothel isn't it, and the first establishment you walk into on that station?” Chakwas laughs again after her joke, expecting Shepard to laugh as well.

But instead of laughing, Shapard freezes when she understands what Chakwas is asking.

“Oh don’t be so alarmed, dear. I know you’ve never been the whoring type. It was a joke.”

Shepard squirms. Her eyes fall on the space where Garrus is lying and Chakwas picks up on it. Unfortunately, she does nothing to mask her discomfort, so Chakwas picks up on that too. With all the professionalism of a doctor she nods, understanding Shepard’s body language. 

“He’s out cold, so don’t worry about him overhearing. Do you know if your partner was clean?”

Shepard shakes her head, realizing that it was reckless and idiotic to have sex with someone an hour after meeting them, especially an anonymous vigilante. 

“Species?” Chakwas asks casually. 

“Turian,” Shepard responds as a lump forms in her already aching throat.

“Well, thankfully you’ve been under immunotherapy for possible allergic reactions to turian DNA. You used to be allergic, you know? You can thank Cerberus for that as well. As for viruses or diseases, was your partner a sex worker? They’re usually good about keeping themselves clean, at least.”

Shepard shakes her head but doesn’t offer any more information. Garrus was so disappointed when he found out he had sex with his old CO, and Shepard feels obligated to protect him against the inevitable additional shame that would result from anyone on this ship knowing. And then she remembers something he said back at his hideout. _Trying to die._ He joked about being on Omega to end his life. Before that truly sinks in, and before Shepard’s heart has a chance to break, Dr. Chakwas continues talking. 

“I have to say, Commander, you weren’t one to have sex with strangers before. Perhaps it’s a sign of reckless behavior that Kelly might be able to talk to you about?” So, Dr. Chakwas _is_ worried about her mental state.

Shepard feels like crying. But not because she had sex with a stranger. It was reckless, but not something she thought would become a habit. The problem is he didn’t feel like a stranger at the time. She was drawn to him, trusted him, and thought she knew him. Turns out she did.

And she feels like crying because she’s now stuck on a ship with someone she had sex with who is mortified about that, and she’d do anything to make him happy. She doesn’t want anyone to know about it because she doesn’t want to give him any reason to regret it any more than he already does. 

But then she remembers what Chakwas just said -- allergic reactions to turian DNA. What if Garrus could have an allergic reaction to her? 

“Can you please be confidential Dr. Chakwas?” 

“Well, that is _expected_ of doctors, Commander.” She smirks.

Shepard draws a breath in, gathering up her nerve. “Do not under any circumstance give Garrus the impression you know this happened, but you may need to treat him for exposure to human DNA.”

Chakwas’ eyes travel over Shepard for just a moment before she sits back in her chair, stick-straight and eyes subtly wide. “Well, Commander, I never knew you and he...”

“I didn’t remember him when we had sex, it _was_ reckless. And he couldn't see my face, so he didn’t know it was me either. He does now and he’s not happy about it. So, please, don’t let him know that you know. But I don’t want him to be at risk.”

“He’s full of an impressive cocktail of antibiotics and I tested him back on the SR1 for allergies, of which he has none. He’ll be fine. But, thank you for telling me.” Chakwas leans forward again and resumes her examination while Shepard can’t help but feel like she’s betrayed Garrus and also admitted to her own asinine behavior worthy of a psych exam. “Oh don’t look so glum, Commander. You may have horrified your subordinate by accidentally having anonymous sex with him, but at least you’re starting to get your memory back.”

Shepard almost glares at Dr. Chakwas, and wonders why everyone on this ship is a smartass. 

The beeping and chiming coming from the machines Garrus is hooked up to increase in tempo, and she hears the rustling of sheets. He’s shifting around. He’s waking up. Her eyes meet Dr. Chakwas’, and while Shepard feels afraid, the doctor simply looks annoyed.

“Damned turian,” she mumbles. “There will be no sitting him still now.” She rises and slowly walks towards his bed, and, making certain she’s talking loud enough for Garrus to hear says, “ _Stubborn bastard_.”

When she reaches the curtain she pulls it back, and just briefly Shepard sees him. She sees the large bandage covering most of the right side of his face as he tries to sit up, but he winces and leans back down. Something tugs at her to go stand by his side, though she resists the urge. 

“I should have given you krogan tranquilizers, you fool,” Dr. Chakwas muses, a smile in her voice while checking his vitals. 

“Shepard?” Garrus asks. His voice sounds similar to Shepard’s -- strained and rough. But Shepard barely takes note of that because her heart leaps when he says her name. 

“Oh she’s fine. She’s just two tables away. Healthy and in good spirits. And I won’t take offense at all to the fact that I spent hours saving as much of your face as possible, yet you ask for _her_ when you wake up instead of me.”

At that, Shepard finally laughs. It’s soft and tired, but it’s the first time she’s laughed since she woke up in that lab. And when she does she sees Garrus look over at her, first with fear then relief. 

The look in his eyes alone has Shepard up and off the table. With buzzing energy, she’s pulled towards him so strongly that she only registers that look of shame in his eyes when she’s standing next to his bed. _Of course_ , she tells herself. Nothing’s changed since she left him to pick up Mordin. 

Space. He needs space and privacy, and for her to leave. But she can’t quite force herself to move. She’s using all of her energy to keep herself from reaching her hand out to wrap around his. 

Shepard nods stiffly, “Good to see you up.”

Garrus answers with a nod, just as stiff as hers. 

To her credit, Dr. Chakwas continues her work as Shepard and Garrus remain quiet. Looking at each other but not looking. 

Shepard knows that if she stays any longer she’ll reach for him, so she tells herself she has to leave so that he can rest. He’s alive. He’ll be fine. “I should go. Miranda has set up quarters for you in the main battery.” 

She looks down at Garrus, knowing that she would give her life for him, that she would have stood between that rocket and him to save his life. Thanking Dr. Chakwas, Miranda, Dr. Solus...wouldn't be enough. There's no way her words could convey what having this man alive and by her side means to her. 

This man, who’s ashamed of what they did together. How can he rest and relax with her there?

She turns to leave. Knowing it will never be enough, she still has to attempt to convey her appreciation. With a breath that threatens to stop her heart, she says, “Thank you, Dr. Chakwas.” 

Shepard takes a deep breath in, holding it, and only lets it out once the medbay doors close behind her.

__________

Shepard sits in her cabin. It’s dark and quiet. The glow and soft hum from the empty fish tank are the only contradictions to that. It’s been two days since she left Dr. Chakwas and Garrus in the medbay. She’s been working with an intense focus during those two days reading rosters, taking incoming requests for assistance, meeting with Miranda to discuss operations -- all from within her cabin. She knows it’s an abuse, but she’s asked Kelly to bring her meals to her room. She doesn’t want to face Garrus or Dr. Chakwas, and she illogically feels like everyone knows what she did on Omega so she avoids the entire crew as well, as much as she can. 

She knows he’s ok because she’s read Dr. Chakwas’ reports over and over. He’ll continue to heal for a few weeks, but he’s out of the woods. Safe and cared for on her ship. 

Her eyes are blinking, trying to focus on a datapad. She’s getting tired, and when she’s tired that’s when she misses Garrus the most. And the way he makes her feel solid and safe. From the moment she left the medbay she’s felt unstrung, and that disorienting ache has just been building, and building. And now it’s all she can think about. She’s read the same last sentence six times now. She can’t focus, all she can think about is him, wishing she could close her eyes and relive that moment. 

_His confident, commanding strides as he had walked in to meet her. The sway of his hips. His hands on her rifle. The pressure on her hips as he pressed into her. The strength of his arms holding her._

Seven. 

She sighs and looks up at the fish tank, the noisiest thing in the room. She hates this room right now. It’s become her prison. Where all she does is work and feel ashamed and lost and too loose in her own body.

It’s like she’s strung out. Weightless. 

Eight.

Her eyes drift from the datapad to a book sitting on her desk. An actual book. And just now she realizes how strange it is to have a book in her cabin. She picks it up and reads the cover.

“A Treasury of Poems”

She doesn't remember liking poetry. Curious, she opens the front cover and reads in firm but feminine handwriting “For Ashley, because you love poetry so much.” Ashley? Did she know an Ashley, and why does she have her book? 

Curiosity building, she opens the book and begins to thumb through it. Nothing seems familiar. Then she finds a page folded over. A poem by Emily Dickenson, that name seems familiar, so she reads it.

The heart asks pleasure first, 

And then excuse from pain; 

And then, those little anodynes 

That deaden suffering;

And then, to go to sleep, 

And then, if it should be

The will of its Inquisitor, 

The liberty to die.

Her eyes tear up, and she doesn't know why. She puts the book down to pull up reports and finds Ashley immediately. Ashley Williams. Lieutenant Williams. But she doesn’t remember anything. No face, no voice, nothing. 

She wipes the tears away and picks the datapad back up, adamant that she get back to work and focus on something that makes sense.

Nine.

__________

Another day passes while she’s holed up in her cabin. She works out there as best she can, but misses the weights down in the ship’s gym. 

Her ache has been building for three days now. Work has become frustrating. Eating is a chore. She begins to imagine fish in the tank, just so she has something to do. Being alone for so long seems unnatural to her. She misses being around people, though she also doesn't want to go near them. She doesn't know them, even the ones she’s supposed to. 

Except for Garrus. She knows him. She _misses_ him. With all of her heart and soul and mind. 

Her body misses him too. 

She has no reports or dossiers or requests to read. She’s scrubbed her armor twice in the last two days. She begins to resent these feelings she has for him. Why does she feel this way, and all he feels is shame? Why does she remember him and no one else, when the last time he looked at her he couldn't actually _look_ at her. 

Why does she feel this way about her subordinate? Why is she aching for someone with every thought and ounce of energy she possesses when he only sees her as his commander? It makes no sense. It’s unfair. It feels like a punishment for a wrong she never committed.

Her body is cold. Drifting. 

And then, remembering his words -- that he went to Omega to die -- she feels guilty. Something happened to him. He’s not exactly doing well either. It seems they could both use a friend right now.

Shepard sits down at her console, and pulls up data stored on her old omni-tool. The tool didn’t survive her fall to Alchera, but the data was extracted. A quick search brings up her old communications, and she immediately looks up “Garrus”. Nothing comes up under his name, but a long strain of messages comes up between her and “G” and as soon as she sees that her heart swells. G. That’s right. And on his omni-tool she was “Shep”. She never called him G, though. She called him something else, but she can’t remember that right now.

Scrolling through the messages, images and emotions start to surface in her mind.

_Late nights working in her quarters, he’d send funny messages keeping her awake. Just when she thought she couldn't get through any more work she’d get a message from him, making her laugh. Sometimes he sent funny images of...other people, humans, and a krogan. She can’t remember who they are. But he sent them to make her laugh. And she did._

She scrolls through the messages -- there’s so many. She doesn't know where to start reading, so she randomly scrolls, and her eyes catch on an image. It’s a ground vehicle, the undercarriage.

_G: See this? It’s in perfect condition. This is what they look like when Commander Shepard has never driven._

_Shep: Oh fuck off. And you liked working on that damned machine._

She remembers him with tools in hand, standing next to a ground vehicle. He’s scowling at her, but he’s hiding a smile. They had fun together, she knows that. Then she looks at the last exchange and the date immediately sticks out. It was the day they said she died. 

_Shep: You a Spectre yet?_

_G: I think it’s gonna take more than three months._

_Shep: Well, I guess not everyone can become a Spectre in three days._

_G: Just you Shep_

_Shep: Well hurry it up, will you. I’ll be back on the Citadel in two weeks. I wanted to see you._

_G: I should be there too, as long as this mission goes smoothly._

_Shep: And if it doesn’t?_

_G: I’ll be in a batarian prison waiting for a rescue by the famous human Spectre, Commander Shepard._

_Shep: I’d rather grab a drink than bust you out of prison._

_G: Well let’s be optimistic and plan on grabbing a drink on the Citadel._

_Shep: Pessimistic plan?_

_G: Bring the drink with you to the prison. I’ll probably need it._

_Shep: God I miss you! Can’t wait to see you._

_G: Miss you too._

_Shep: Hey, I need to head down to the CIC soon. Breaks’ over._

_G: It was good hearing from you._

_Shep: Let me know how the mission goes._

_G: I will. Take care Shep._

_Shep: You too Garrus. Make me proud._

And then there’s a single message from Garrus just a few hours later. 

_G: Shep, please tell me you’re ok. Please._

She feels like she’s dangling, drifting, and loose. Her body feels weightless and cold and before she knows it she’s breathing quickly. In and out in and out. Chest rising. And then she’s _struggling_ to breathe. She closes her eyes to steady her breaths but the second they close she sees darkness and stars around her and she’s drifting and there’s fire. A ship. On fire. In pieces. 

Her ship. That’s how she died. She’s remembering the moment she died. Her eyes shoot open and frantically look around her cabin. She’s panicking and she’s all alone in a dark room. All she can hear is her own frantic breathing. Just like when she died in cold, dark, silent space. 

She doesn’t think as she nearly falls into the elevator. As she leans against the back wall for support. As she rushes through the thankfully empty mess. All she can think is that she needs to see him. She needs to know everything is alright between them because he’s all she has to feel grounded, and she doesn’t want to feel that drifting, terrible loneliness again. 

She makes it to the main battery but stops just outside the doors. He can’t see her like this. It’ll push him away. She stands still, trying to breathe and force her heart to stop pounding. She needs him so desperately but he doesn't want to be near her. The way he looked at her in the medbay, the look of shame in his eyes, grinds into her mind. 

Fists clenched, she decides what she has to do. He needs her, just as much as she needs him. She’ll promise him that they can fix this, that they can both forget what happened. She needs to be close to him and feel his strength to prop her up. His friendship is enough for her. It has to be. She needs her friend back because she doesn't think she can do this without him. She’s a commander who can only remember him and the moments before she died. She’s weak and spiraling. But he remembers her strength. 

If he believes in her, she’ll believe in herself again. She straightens her back, stiffens her shoulders, and walks through the doors that slide open with a soft hiss. 

Garrus is at a console in the middle of the room, typing away furiously but stops when she walks in. When he sees that it’s her he tucks his head and keeps working. She has to persist, though. 

“Commander, something I can do for you?” His voice is clipped and cautious. 

“Just came to check-in.” She tries to sound casual and controlled. 

“Doing your rounds?” he asks, but when she looks at him with confusion and doesn’t say anything, he clarifies. “On the old Normandy you did rounds at the end of the day, checked in on your crew. I just assumed you were doing rounds.”

“Oh. No, but that’s a good idea,” she admits.

“Your crew liked it then, I’m sure the Cerberus crew will appreciate it too.”

“Have the crew been kind to you? Are you settling in?”

“Yeah, no complaints. I don’t trust them, though, not with you.” She hears a protective rumble in his chest when he says that, and he stops working to turn and look at her. When she sees his face she wants to step closer to him, be inside his sphere where she can feel the warmth and strength of his body. 

“Then it’s good you’re here with me. We can watch out for each other. Just like old times.” She offers a smile, but she knows it’s an uncertain one and she also knows her voice reeked of desperation. 

After she says that a silence hangs between them. His eyes, anxious and heavy with worry watch her until they finally fall. He crosses his arms in front of him and leans against the console. He looks strong and confident and it reminds her of how he carried himself when he first entered that dark room back on Omega. It makes her knees a little weak, but also calms her. She trusts him and knows that he can protect her through anything. That worry in his eyes doesn’t disappear, though. 

“I’m just taking a look at the canons,” he explains, his eyes no longer meeting hers. She can’t help but fear that she’s making him nervous now. Standing. Lurking. 

She needs to get to the point. “I came to ask if you’re ok. After the attack...”

“I’m not quite ready to talk.”

She nods too quickly, too ready to appease him and let him know she’s not pushing him or prying. 

“But if I need anything, I know I can reach out.”

She nods slower this time, accepting his answer and telling her paranoid fears to settle down. He needs to know that she’s not pushing herself into his life, that he can trust her to respect his space. 

“And I also wanted to say I’m sorry. About what happened before I left to get Mordin.” 

A mandible lifts in a half-smile, his expression reads as wry amusement. “Maybe ‘anonymous hooded woman’ isn't the right fashion choice for someone who lost their memory -- might cause some confusing encounters.”

“Why is everyone on this ship a smartass?” she huffs, and if she wasn’t mere minutes post-panic attack she'd laugh. 

“I’m pretty sure you made it a requirement when you put your crew together,” he jokes. 

She wishes she could laugh. That she could relax and laugh like she knows they used to. She feels so unsure of who she was and who she is now. “Do I seem different?”

He looks her over and thinks. He must decide he knows what she’s really asking, what she’s really worried about because his expression softens. “No, you’re not different.”

“Would you be able to tell?”

“Yeah, I was with you on almost every mission for over a year, Shep. I know you.” 

He called her Shep. Just like in their messages. It warms her and wraps her in something comforting and tight. With that in her mind, she tells him before she can convince herself to keep her mouth shut, “You’re the first thing I remembered.”

His shoulders seem to sink, and he looks down at his feet as if checking his boots. Shrugging, he tells her, “I’m the first thing you’ve seen from your past.”

She shook her head. It’s significant, even if he doesn’t want to think that it is. “That cabin is filled with things that belonged to me, they got my stuff from my apartment, and replicated stuff I kept on the Normandy -- don’t ask me how they knew what was in my cabin. And I didn’t remember Tali. She said she was on the Normandy too, just like you were.” 

“You saw Tali?” He seems distant when he says that, like he’s just trying to make polite conversation. 

She nods. “I didn’t remember her. At all.” She pauses, watching him and attentively waiting for his reaction when she adds, “But I remember you.”

“You were my mentor, Shepard. I looked up to you. I learned from you.” He’s guarded and hurt, and she can’t help but think it's her fault for acting so recklessly back on Omega. If she had just lowered her hood when he first walked into that room...

She nods and takes a deep breath. “I know. I remember more now. I don’t remember everything, but I remember you. The mako. That’s where you spent your time. And where I spent a lot of my time, too. We were close, weren’t we?”

“You had to check up on me a lot. I was a pain.” 

She doesn’t remember him being a pain. Her memories come in flashes. _Him standing next to the mako. Under the mako, she’s under there too and they’re smiling._ Why can’t she remember more? 

She shakes her head in disagreement, “I enjoyed spending time with you. I thought we were hanging out. Friends.”

She fights the ache building in her to reach for him. He finally looks up at her, but he still feels too distant. “I wanted to think that we were.”

“We were. We are, still. Just because I died...”

He tenses, muscles drawn tight, and she’s desperate to know why so she can fix it. 

Her eyes fall to the floor before she forces herself to look back up at him, squaring her shoulders and mustering up her Commander voice. “If you don’t feel close to me anymore, I understand. I know I've been gone for two years but...”

“I feel close to you, Shepard.” His voice is warm and it instantly soothes away all of her worries. But that’s not all. It sends a tickle up her spine. 

Silence hangs between them. She entered the main battery to reassure him they can still be friends, no matter what. But she fears all she’s accomplished is making her body miss him even more. 

“Can I help with anything?” he finally asks, caution in his voice. 

She shakes her head, feeling guilty for not leaving. After another moment she says, “I don’t feel so lost around you. I’m sorry, if that makes you feel uncomfortable...”

He shakes his head. “You don’t make me uncomfortable.” His voice travels her body like a penetrative smoke, crawling and climbing her limbs and back and chest to spread warmth and need. It makes her shift her legs so that her armor doesn’t press against her so tightly. She can already feel his hands on her hips, talons digging in. “It's good to be back,” he says.

She nods, convincing herself to make the correct call. She needs to leave before she fucks this up. “I’m glad you’re here. And, thank you for your work on the canons. If you need anything, be sure to let me know.”

As she turns away the strength she’s exhibiting begins to fall off her in chunks, like a crumbling cliff losing its structure and stability. She takes purposeful strides out the doors, feeling a single thread tying her to him. It’s hanging loose, dangling, but it’s still there. Her hand lands on her gut as if that will hold that little knot tight and secure while she walks away from him. Not because she wants to, but because she has to. 

His solemn, smoky voice travels from behind her, “Bye, Shepard.”


	4. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus makes a vow, but between his own self-loathing and the memories of their moment back on Omega, he struggles to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs I had on loop:  
> Skin, Madonna  
> and some more Cellophane, FKA Twigs

Garrus is grabbing some food from the mess so he can escape back into the main battery and fill his brain with calculations and algorithms. He’s decided he wants to install a thanix cannon but knows he’ll have to ask Shepard, and he still can’t quite face her. 

She came to him, to check on him and tried to remind herself what their friendship meant. But he failed her. She left looking disappointed. Looking scared. 

He felt close to her the moment he walked into that room and saw her sitting there. He knew there was something there, pulling him towards her, but he didn’t listen to his instincts. He was drowning in depression and uncertainty and fucked his CO, his friend, because he was too thick and stubborn to listen to his instincts. 

He can only imagine what she must think of him. When she left him on the Citadel he was a Spectre candidate. And when she found him on Omega two years later he was a murderer, a vigilante with a penchant for sick, cruel takedowns who fucks anonymous women who walk into his hideout asking for help.

He hasn’t seen her since yesterday and wonders if she’ll come by for rounds again tonight. She’s not a coward, like he is, so she probably will. 

That’s when he hears Shepard’s voice. She’s leaving Miranda’s quarters with Miranda in tow, walking with purpose and confidence, and his voice trills just at the sight of her. Why does he still want more, despite feeling disgusted with himself? 

“I don’t like the idea of picking up a convict for this team. Jack sounds dangerous and unstable.”

“I can assure you the Illusive Man wouldn’t endanger you with the presence of someone you’re unable to control. Together, you and I can handle Jack.”

“I don’t like the idea of docking on a turian prison ship, either.”

“Well, choose your team wisely and you shouldn’t have any problems.”

“What do you think of Kasumi?”

“Solid choice–”

He doesn’t hear the rest because they disappear around the corner to the elevator, tugging at him as she goes. Garrus heads back to the main battery where he stays for hours stewing over the thought of Shepard picking up a convict on a turian prison ship. She has a ship full of people she can take with her. Strong, skilled people. And he’s hiding from her. Useless. Broken and useless to her.

Trying to convince himself he’s still capable of doing something helpful he sets to work on the calibrations. His food sits on a nearby crate and goes cold. 

What’s happened to him? He used to be strong, and proud, and confident in everything he did and every choice he made. He used to be so certain. 

Or maybe he never was any of those things. Maybe he was lying to himself then, and maybe for the first time in his life, he’s being honest with himself and actually acknowledging who he is, every weakness and every mistake. 

Spirits, he wants more. He wants to feel her body in his hands and see her eyes look into his like they did during that sweet, short moment when he lowered her hood and their eyes met. The one short little moment before he felt true horror looking into the eyes of his dead CO and she realized something was wrong. 

He finishes his work on the canons and tries to get some rest, because he didn’t sleep much the night before – and with a quarter of his face blown off, he needs it. That plan lasts about five minutes before he’s up again. There’s one more tweak he thinks to make. And he can't sleep anyway. 

What the hell else is he doing here if he doesn’t go with her on missions like this? He agreed to come with her to stay by her side, watch over her. If there’s anything he knows it's turians and the Blue Suns. 

And if something goes sideways…

He has to be there with her. 

Leaning against the console he finally gathers up his nerve. “EDI, is the Commander busy?”

“She is in her cabin, reading. Would you like me to ask if she’s available to speak with you, Officer Vakarian?”

“Please.”

Only a moment passes before he hears her voice travel over the comms. “Garrus?” Her voice is soft and strong. And, yes, that seems to be two opposing things all at once, but _she’s_ soft and strong. Her voice makes him feel like anything that’s wrong with the galaxy, she can fix. And she’s surprised to hear from him, which kills him. She should always know he’s there for her. It’s his fault that she doesn’t, and he knows he has to prove to her that she can trust him again. 

“The turian prison ship. I’m going with you.” _Fuck_ , he should have asked. It’s not his place here to give orders like that. He’s not in charge of anything anymore. For good reason. 

“Of course,” she says immediately, not giving him a chance to apologize. That’s when he realizes she sounds tense and hopes it’s not because of him. 

Silence falls between them for so long that he wonders if she disconnected. 

“We dock tomorrow, start of the day cycle. Visit the armory before then so you can select your weapons. Jacob can provide mods if you want any.” 

“Yes, Commander.”

“It’s a Blue Suns ship. Purgatory.”

“Won’t be a problem,” he promises. 

“I’m glad you offered, Garrus,” she says. “Means a lot to me.”

He’s going to make this up to her. He’s going to set this right and make sure everything goes back to normal. He'll watch her six and pull her up from the rubble when she needs a hand. She’s his commander. His mentor. His friend. 

_____________

Armoring up, slapping on guns, and checking medi-gel packs brings back old memories. It’s almost just like old times, except that it isn’t. The mission starts and he’s already feeling frantic, just from being this close to her. He wants to apologize to her to the point of lying himself prone at her feet. 

And then everything gets so much worse because the warden turns out to be two-faced, because of course he is. Gunfire breaks out. From the very moment her biotics light up and bullets fly at her, he can’t stop worrying about Shepard. He lost her once, and that nearly killed him. He didn’t even feel this tie to her then. 

He can’t shrug off this concern for her that’s driving him crazy. He tries to keep close to Shepard the whole time. He can’t let her out of his sight. Doesn't want to be more than a few steps away from her, which causes more than a few tense moments because he’s a sniper and she’s a hand-to-hand biotic. They’re not supposed to be on top of each other in battle, and they never were before.

He keeps one eye on Shepard and the other on whoever he’s shooting. And somehow, even though he’s all out of eyes, he has to watch for Kasumi too as she cloaks in and out of the kill zone. It takes some adjusting. 

His heart tries to beat itself out of his chest and his blood rushes. All he hears is the pops of heat sinks and the crackle of Shepard’s biotics as Shepard dashes around the kill zone. She charges from behind crates. Slams into guards and prisoners with more force than he’s ever seen, and then finishes them off with her pistol. She’s never looked stronger, or more confident. And it gives him a heart attack every time she gathers up her biotic energy, fists alight, and slams into the fools who aren’t quick enough to get out of her way. The battle is a constant fray on his nerves. It shouldn't be. He’s better than this. 

Whether it’s that attack on Omega or his feelings for Shepard, he’s not the same. His shot is perfect. He’s taking down guards and prisoners left and right just as quickly as Shepard and Kasumi, but he’s never felt like this in a battle before. He’s never been so on edge. 

He can’t stop thinking maybe something will happen to her and maybe he won’t handle himself like the seasoned soldier he is. He stood, cold as stone, in front of a drug dealer on Omega and watched the bastard slowly suffocate on his own blood and vomit. Didn’t even flinch. But now...Shepard so much as gets a scrape on her armor and he’s falling over himself to get to her. Make sure she’s ok. Protect her. 

But she has to be thinking that he’s failing her. If she does, though, she doesn't show it. The reprimand he’s waiting for doesn’t come. She doesn't even give him a warning look telling him to back off and get himself together. 

As they move through corridors in between the firefights, he can’t help but think of every stupid thing he’s ever done. Before he met Shepard, and especially while she was dead. He wants to promise her he’s better than that. But is he? Really? 

Before Garrus knows it they’re in a large room, Kasumi hits the warden with an overload, Shepard lifts him with her biotics, and just as the warden aims his gun at Shepard Garrus puts a bullet in the guys’ brain. Pretty good for a thief, a dead woman, and a disgraced vigilante. While exiting the room Shepard taps her fist to his chest and says, “Thanks, big guy. You got him right as my barrier faded out.”

It should make him feel better, but that’s a lot to ask of just a few words. That’s when he realizes just how wrecked he is – when Shepard’s encouragement and support aren’t even enough to heal his broken spirit. 

Only a few moments later they load into the shuttle with Jack in tow. As soon as they sit down Kasumi smirks at him and Shepard and says, “I’ve never seen two people so wrapped up in each other but so far apart.”

They both ignore her but their eyes steal looks at each other. Then the shuttle goes silent.

He’s never felt so exposed. Everyone’s eyes are on him. At least that’s how it feels. Kasumi is watching him from under her hood. Jack is watching him with those anxious, cornered-animal eyes. 

And Shepard is watching him, even though he can tell she’s trying not to. 

The shuttle takes off and they start to put some distance between them and the mission that went so sideways the ship is on fire and about to explode. He’s facing the other way but he can see the flashes of light projected onto the shuttle wall behind Shepard. 

He can’t wait to get back to the Normandy. He feels tied to Shepard, drawn close, but not close enough. That knot that he’s felt since Shepard, hooded and unknown, walked into his hideout is tight and he’s yearning for her. Even more than the moment she walked out of his hideout, hooded still but revealed as his Shepard -- his commander and his mentor. Reincarnated. 

He ached to keep her there with him when she left, but he was too afraid to ask her to stay. Too embarrassed and afraid because he had never felt as whole as he did when they were holding each other and he was buried within her. And he felt that way about his commander. His friend. He wants her skin under his touch and her lips on his. Kissing him like she did back on Omega with those perfect little lips.

He’s scum. Omega scum who deserved to die on Omega. 

He’s sitting across from Shepard and because he wishes they were closer he can’t take his eyes off her. It takes a moment to pull himself together and once he calms his thoughts and desires he finally _sees_ her. She’s looking past him, and she seems so distant and wrecked that he can’t help but think something’s very wrong. 

Guilt kicks him in the gut when he acknowledges they haven’t talked at all, never exchanged more than a few words during the entire mission. Kasumi starts a conversation with Jack, giving him the privacy to finally say something to Shepard. 

“You alright?” he asks her.

She nods stiffly but doesn't look at him. 

“You hurt?” His voice almost cracks. 

She shakes her head, just as stiffly. She seems loose and drifting. He’s never seen her like this before. Not even after Virmire or Saren. 

Even though they didn’t talk much, Shepard had talked freely with Kasumi. Threw some quips at Jack to get her to leave with them. She looked happy enough, focused on the mission and getting everyone out of there. But now she’s quiet. She looks like she’s a million miles away, staring off at nothing in particular. Her hands grip the seat tight, knuckles turning white. Her vitals aren’t normal. Increased heart rate and respiration even though the battle has been over long enough. 

Everything up until that moment was frantic. The fighting. His self-loathing thoughts. The way he wants to put his hands on Shepard’s skin. But from the very moment she opens her mouth and words begin to flow, time slows. He can feel each steady heartbeat thrumming in his chest. 

With her eyes looking past him she says, “There was a book in my room. Of poetry. The inside flap said it belonged to Ashley.”

“Do you remember her?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. “No, I read reports though. She died on Virmire, under my command.”

Garrus nods, confirming that, but he doesn’t say anything else because he knows memories should come from her. He wonders why she’s bringing this up now. That’s when he realizes she hasn’t been staring at nothing – her eyes are looking over his shoulder and out the shuttle window. The prison ship succumbing to flames, pieces bursting off in explosions. He’s not so stupid that he doesn't realize what she must be thinking about and then he’s thinking about the same thing. The Normandy. How she died. 

“I read one of the poems.” She finally looks at him. “The heart asks pleasure first, And then excuse from pain; And then those little anodynes. That deaden suffering.”

His heart sinks as she recites the lines, but he steels himself to be strong for her. 

“And then, to go to sleep, And then, if it should be, the will of the Inquisitor, The liberty to die.”

Just as the last syllable falls past her lips the shuttle jolts slightly as it docks, but he barely feels it because his heart is hammering. It’s all he can do to keep from leaping towards her to take her in his arms. She needs him. Doesn’t she? 

As she rises he does as well, not quite leaping after her but close enough. Being away from her hurts, he knows that much from hiding in the main battery for days, and he doesn’t want to crawl back into his hole quite yet. So he sticks by her side as they make their way through CIC. She presses the elevator button with him close on her heels, and when she enters the elevator and leans against the back wall he follows her every move, unconsciously matching all her motions. She looks up at him, and because she’s so small and he’s so tall it reminds him of when she peeked at him from under her hood. Desire leaps up in him, but even more than that he wants to hold her to chase away this look in her eyes that breaks his heart. 

While he battles both of those needs, their eyes stay locked on each other. They don’t speak. They don’t move. They just look into each other's eyes. He wants to be there for her, and she wants him there. That much he knows. Feels.

The elevator slows to a stop. That’s when he realizes he’s followed her, neither speaking a word, to her cabin. The elevator doors slide open, and as her body leans forward to exit the tips of her gloved fingers brush against his. He watches her for the briefest moment as she walks away from him. His eyes stay trained on her fingertips. Those small, delicate little fingertips that just brushed his and made his heart beat a path right out of his chest. Those fingertips that touched his so lightly he has trouble believing he didn’t just imagine it. 

He watches her fingers, hanging at her side so innocently, as she glides out of the elevator. With unmoving eyes, he follows her. In a single stride, there’s only a step separating their movements. Walking through the threshold into her cabin he’s drawn to her, body and soul, and there’s nowhere in the galaxy he’d rather be.


	5. Heal Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The greatest healing comes from touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song I had on loop:
> 
> By Your Side, Sade

As she moves into her cabin he watches her carefully. He knows he shouldn't be here, in his CO’s personal space, but the thought of leaving her side hurts. He realizes how lucky he is. She died, he lost her, but here she is. Living, breathing, and walking. 

And her fingers brushed his. With that thought hammering through his mind he feels his hand clench, savoring the way it made his skin tingle and his heart dance. Then he feels foolish for treasuring that little touch because less than a week ago he’d bent her over his workbench and fucked her with more vigor than he knew he even possessed any more. She felt like life the moment he saw her sitting in his hideout with her hood drawn tight.

Like she always did. Shepard always felt like life itself to him. Each breath she took filled his lungs. Each smile or laugh filled him with joy. How did he not know the hooded woman was her?

Because she died. It couldn't have been her. Her death was broadcasted and confirmed, even without her body. There was no way the woman sitting in his hideout could have been her. She left him. Permanently. No coming back. And he said goodbye to her the moment he stepped foot on Omega. 

Omega reminds him of that moment they shared in his armory. The heat of her body. The way she moaned and cried out for him. The way he held her hips down and his talons pressed into her skin as her body tensed in pleasure. 

He shouldn't have taken her like that. 

“I’m so sorry, Shepard.” 

“Why?” she asks softly, curious but careful. 

“Because you're my commander. And my friend.”

“If we were friends then why don’t you ever call me anything but Shepard or Commander?” A smart little smile quirks her lips. 

He can’t help but smile, thinking of working on the Mako so many late nights as she sat nearby on a crate, eating her dinner while watching him fix everything she broke. “I always called you Sh–”

“Shep,” she interjected, her face softens and there’s an inflection of fondness in her voice. She looks lighter, happier. “And I called you ‘big guy’. I remembered that when I tapped your chest. I didn’t do that –the chest tapping –with anyone else did I?”

He shakes his head, warmth blooming right where she always knocked her little fist against his keel when she was pumping them up for a fight, or when she was proud of him. The last time she did that to him was when she left him on the Citadel so he could become a Spectre. 

“Are you saying you want me to call you by your first name?” he asks, certain that she doesn’t and that she’ll tell him no. 

A wry smile gently parts her lips. “We’ve fucked. Twice. I feel like I deserve ‘first name basis’ now.”

He laughs so suddenly and unexpectedly a keen almost escapes. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says again. It ruins that lighthearted moment between them, but he can't help it. Just as the last word falls from his lips his brain urges him to say it again. And again. He wants to tell her he’s sorry for so many things, not just treating her like an anonymous sexual encounter, even though she felt like so much more. But how would she know how he felt at that moment if he never told her?

Her face softens, it’s reassuring, but also a little sad. “I wish you weren’t sorry.” Before he can respond to that she turns, unhooks her shotgun and her pistol from their holsters, and places them on her table.

He does the same with his rifles, so they can have a real conversation. While he lays his weapons down he watches her and thinks _– you came back to me_. Those words repeat in his head. He thinks them, over and over. He thinks it so many times that the words eventually slip past his lips and he says them to her and he hates that he hasn’t held them back like he holds everything else back. Saying those words to her causes a tightness in his chest so painful he thinks his subvocals will take over and drown out his voice. Unlike his words, he does manage to hold back the desperate rumbling he feels tearing through him. He feels his mandibles fluttering, though, betraying him and hinting at just how wrecked he is.

She walks to him. Stands toe-to-toe with him. His chin nearly skimming the top of her head as she takes his hands.

“I know we were just friends before, but...If I had a choice whether or not Cerberus gave me life again, I would come back for this. For what I feel for you now.”

“You can do better,” his hands tense within hers, talons pressing into his palms, as he hears the obvious shame in his voice. To be this weak in front of her causes a pain that twists in his gut.

The red hair framing his face brushes her shoulders as she shakes her head. “I want my best friend. I want you. And you're so much stronger than you know, Garrus.” 

Doubt creeps around his mind as his mandibles continue to flutter and he lets out a tired sigh. He can’t believe that she’s telling him the truth. Because there's no way she actually wants him. _Him._ A failed cop. Failed Spectre candidate. Vigilante that got his whole team killed in a massacre. 

As if reading his mind she says, “I lost my ship and you lost your hideout. I lost crewmembers. You lost your team. I died and a rocket nearly killed you. We are so much alike. We’ve been through something so similar. Why don’t you see that?”

“You’re perfect, Jane." It's not just a declaration. It's an argument. 

She doesn't counter that argument, though. She looks up at him with patience and fondness. “We match,” she whispers. 

Her hand lifts to his right mandible, fingertips brush over the bandage before her palm cups his mandible that is torn up and tender. But her touch is incredibly soft. Then she pulls her hand to her cheek and her fingertips trace the glowing scars that snake down along her cheekbone. He wants to make her feel beautiful and wants her to know he sees her and accepts her just as she is, scars and all, so he lifts his hand to her cheek and traces the scar just as she had.

She looks up at him as if she can see into him. Carefully, she says, “I need this. It feels like you do too?” 

Spirits, yes, he does. Need outweighs doubt. He answers with a nod. His free hand is hesitant but he lifts it, grasping through the heavy energy between them so that he can rest it on her hip. He longs to feel that curve again, right where her waist bends out and becomes her hip, where his hand had traveled when they were back on Omega and he knew that just by feeling her his life could be whole again. And his instincts had been right. The woman standing in front of him, whose curves had rested beneath his starving hands, was the only woman who _could_ make him whole again, the only woman he’d ever trusted implicitly with his life, and now it turns out she’s the only woman he could ever trust with his soul.

And he’d love to lay his soul before her, to hand her his heart and let her hold on to it and to him. But every time he’s dropped his guard before, every time he's really put himself out there, he’s paid a price. What would failing her cost him? The rest of his sanity? The only ounce of resolve he has left to keep trying, to keep lifting his head and move forward? 

The leap forward with her would take strength he doesn't have. But he doesn’t want to leave so he says to her, “Let’s take it slow this time around.” Hoping she doesn't hear the self-doubt in his voice his eyes stay locked on her hands. Something tells him she needs to feel whole again too, and if he ever failed to make her feel whole he’d never forgive himself. She should know that she is perfect. She nods, and that’s enough to tell him they’re ok. This can work. Maybe, just maybe, they can find peace with each other. 

The hint of a patient smile still plays on her lips but she abruptly lets his hand go and takes a step back so that his other hand falls from her waist. He wants to lunge after her, beg her not to go. Why did she go? She’s smiling, so she can’t be disappointed that he wants to go slow. She pulled away, though, so he fills with even more doubt. 

“I need to shower,” she tells him, removing her gloves and tossing them on the couch. She doesn’t tell him whether he should stay or go. As he watches, still missing her touch, she begins to remove her chest armor, the fasteners popping gently and echoing in the cabin that’s silent other than a soft hum from the fish tank. So silent he can hear her breaths as she inhales and exhales, moving gracefully to set her chest armor down and then removing the individual pieces that make up the armor that protects her forearms, biceps, and shoulders. 

As her agile fingers unfasten the armor that sits around her hips, he finds himself watching, still. He’s been watching her remove her armor slowly, unsure what he should do. Because he knows what he wants to do. He wants to lay his hands on her soft skin, feel the weight of her body pressing against his. And he doesn’t want to go, because being away from her leaves him feeling untethered, drifting in space without something to ground him and keep him safe. Watching her slowly remove her armor isn’t exactly taking it slow, though. 

When she looks up at him with warmth and yearning in her eyes his heart catches. A tickle in his chest erupts and he can’t tell if it’s excitement, or yearning... or that he might just break down and keen. 

He has to make a decision – stay or go. She wants him to stay, that’s why she’s taking her time removing every piece of armor. Without asking or saying a single word he knows that’s what she’s doing. Taking her time gives him a chance to decide. A knot settled deep within him knows that he should be with her, always, not just by her side but wrapped around her and she should be wrapped around him.

His hands are as hesitant as his mind. He said he wanted to take this slow, but if 'slow' means leaving her right now then that can't be the right decision. Instead of searching her out his hands land on the top fasteners on his chest armor. Light pops echo throughout her cabin as he watches for her reaction. Will she accept him, or tell him to leave? After only a few pops and a stressful moment waiting for her reassurance, relief flashes through her eyes. Her body softens, relaxing when she realizes that he’s staying with her. The confidence her reaction gives him feels like the first actual breath of air he's taken in two years. 

“You’re staying?” she asks. He can hear the excitement in her voice.

He nods. “If that’s ok?”

She smiles at him, looking like she wants to say something but she simply answers with an enthusiastic nod. 

He’ll shower with her – help her scrub the blood and sweat of battle off her body and let her do the same for him. They’ll take care of each other, in every way that they can. If that’s all they do he’s fine with that. But he’s not sure he’ll be able to hold back from asking for more. She always leads in battle, though. Maybe he should just wait for her cue in more intimate situations, too. 

Anxious to get under the warm water with her by his side, it only takes another moment before his upper armor is on the table. Their eyes drift from giving each other warm looks of affection to steal glimpses as each segment of armor is unfastened and removed. Anticipation builds the closer they get to reveal their bodies to each other. He feels a juvenile and ridiculous energy just waiting to see her. 

He swells with emotion as she removes her undersuit. First, she pulls down the zipper and peels her shoulders out. Then her strong arms slide out, the suit falling so that it hangs loosely from her hips. He’s been watching her instead of removing his own undersuit, so he decides to focus on peeling himself out of the tight fabric. His muscles are sore from battle, and he aches to be under the hot water with her so he continues to pull the undersuit from his body, the fabric folding and falling from his shoulders to dangle from his hip spurs. As he peels it from his hip spurs she removes the fabric binding her breasts down, and although he’s never been excited by the sight of breasts, he can feel his pulse quicken because exposing herself like this means something to her. 

That’s when he realizes she’s moving somewhat awkwardly, and he finally acknowledges the very visible glowing scars traveling down each of her limbs and snaking up her stomach, chest, and back. He remembers the shame in her eyes when her hood was first down – when he yanked it down, so shocked he cared more about seeing her face than giving her the autonomy to choose to show him. He remembers how she carefully pulled at the dark fabric so that her scars were hidden as much as possible, and remembers when she said _If you think my face looks bad, you should see the rest of my body._ That’s when the keen that’s been sitting in his throat leaps up, just for a second, because his heart breaks knowing she doubts anything about herself. 

Seeing how beautiful she is, scars and all, he’s filled with even more confidence. Maybe the torn up plates and scorched skin on his body don’t matter much, either. And she wants him. His friend. His commander. Shepard died, alone and cold. But she stands in front of him now, very alive and more beautiful than anything or anyone he’s ever seen. 

She walks towards her bathroom, pulling the last bit of fabric that sits at her hips down. From behind he watches her as her agile fingers slide the small piece of black fabric over her hips, it skates past her thighs and falls past her ankles to rest on the floor. And then she’s completely bare as she walks to the shower and turns on the hot water. Lean muscles and soft curves. He didn’t think it was possible for a human to be so beautiful. 

He swallows all the nerves building up in his throat and with a few motions of his hands, his undersuit is off. He’s also completely bare as he follows her path to the bathroom. 

He catches up to her quickly, just a few steps behind her, and enters the room. She steps under the water, her hair instantly darkening and drenched. He’s so focused on her that he can see all the individual beads of water fall on her skin then roll slowly down her body. Over shoulders, down her back. They glide over her hips. 

Her hands run over her hair, she holds her palms up to feel the water showering down from the faucet, then begins to run her hands over her shoulders and limbs to rub the sweat and grime from her skin. 

He watches her, mesmerized by her beauty, and strength, and careful to watch how she touches herself. With her back to him, he steps behind her to let the water fall over him. Her back is strong and beautiful, and so pale. 

The first thing he does is place the back of a talon at the base of her spine. Her muscles tense, and her breath catches, but her hips tilt back towards him. In one slow, fluid stroke his talon travels from the base of her spine, up past the small of her back, past her ribs and between her shoulder blades, and then stops at the base of her neck just as she lets out her breath and presses back against him. 

He doesn’t take the same time to rub the grime from himself, choosing to reach for her soap instead. Once he has the gel dispensed into his hands he places them on her shoulders. Her skin is smooth, slick from the soap, and nothing has ever felt more erotic under his eager hands. 

Her shoulders are strong. Her waist is tight. Her ass, although he can clearly feel thick muscles, is enticingly soft. When he grasps her hips her flesh dimples around his talons. 

The remnants of battle are washed from her skin under his caring touch while she folds her arms and holds her hands tight to her chest. They’re balled up and tucked in between her collarbones. 

“Does that feel good?” he asks, anxious to make sure she enjoys his touch.

She turns her head to look over her shoulder at him and nods. Water trickles down her nose and cheeks. Gorgeous green eyes pop against all dull greys and browns in everything around her. Her eyes and her hair seem so full of color and life. 

His muscles relax under the hot water. He stands with her, his eyes on every beautiful inch of her body and his hands exploring her, feeling her bones and muscles and curves and smooth skin. Heat within his blood builds as he touches her. 

She turns to him and dispenses soap within her own hands, which she places on his chest. Water ripples over his plates and skin and her hands soon wash over him, And although it’s relaxing in a way it also sends thrills shooting up his spine. He wonders if she felt need surging throughout her body at his touch, just like he’s experiencing now.

He can feel his plates tensing as blood rushes through him, gathering between his thighs. His plates are swelling. Her hands travel from his chest to his stomach and his subvocals start when her small, enticing fingers brush over his waist. He’s dying to touch her, but he holds himself back as she washes the battle from him just like he did for her. 

It’s not a smart move, but his hands wind up on her hips, just to appease the need that’s burning in him. He remembers what her hips felt like in his hands as he pressed inside her before. His body knows she’s been his before. It tells him she's still his. 

She feels closer than she had been even seconds before. She’s almost pressing against him. But she’s not, they’re keeping their distance. Somehow he feels her all over him, against his plates and skin, and smells her scent all around him. 

His plates begin to inch open, and he can feel his own fluid start to drip from his slit. He’s going to be unsheathed soon if he doesn’t stop looking at her, and if she doesn't stop touching him. 

He grabs her wrists, too roughly which he regrets, to hold her hands back because he can’t take it anymore. She doesn’t gasp or startle. She just allows him to hold her like that and move her body however he wants. That doesn't help. Not at all. 

He lifts one of her hands by the wrist over her head, it arches her back and thrusts her breasts out. She lets him do it, actually starts to breathe excitedly. That doesn't help either. His other hand drops the wrist it’s grasping so he can feel her. He lets his free hand glide up the inside of her thigh and notices that she parts her legs just slightly for him. He presses a finger to her slit and finds it dripping just like his is. He indulges his desire to run his finger along her slit and his blood quickens as her folds throb against his touch. 

The look in her eyes sends him soaring. It’s so filled with need and trust that he feels like he can do anything to her and she’ll let him. Not only will she let him, but she’ll like it. 

He’s been watching her carefully, looking for the slightest hint of doubt in her eyes or her expression. But her lips or parted, her eyes are burning into his, and her muscles seem to vibrate for him. That energy is pulling him in again. The ache to be near her and with her fights with his self-doubt. It makes his muscles tight. He feels like he might just start shaking. 

“If you don’t want to…” she starts to say just as he begins to press through his plates. Her free hand balls up into a fist and tenses at her side. She’s uncertain if he wants her. “We don’t have to. Only what you want,” she says and he wonders how this woman can pull off commanding and submission and comforting all at once. She’s perfect. She’s everything. All the stars and moons and every sunset that has ever lit up a sky. 

A chime rings, indicating the water will soon stop falling over them. Her eyes stay on his as she uses her free hand to turn the water off, all while he still holds the other over her head by the wrist. She’s posed for him, like a statue of a spirit of war, or love, or maybe creation. 

Without pulling her wrist from his grasp she reaches for a towel and dries herself off, wherever she can reach with one hand. Then she pats the towel to his plates and skin, her hungry eyes gazing into his, and with them both nearly dry she tosses the towel to the side. 

He runs his thumb along her palm for some sort of reassurance, then she wraps her fingers around it, squeezing lightly just once. It’s supposed to be encouraging and comforting. But all it makes him think of is her hand wrapped around him, stroking him. 

He wants to take her right there but he holds himself back. He took her like this before, rough and quick on a workbench. This time they’ll go slower. He’ll savor every second of it and show her what she means to him. 

He releases her wrist so he can pick her up, guides her legs around his hips spurs, and carries her to the bed while her hands hold tight to his collar. He lays her down, the mattress sinking slightly under her body. Instead of joining her, he stands up at the foot of the bed, his eyes locked on hers at first then traveling down her body, from her lips to her neck and stomach, to her thighs and the way she has them slightly parted for him. 

Lying there she looks drawn tight and held together, whereas every moment he’s seen her since he woke up in the medbay she has looked as if every muscle was too loose, without need. Limbs dangling without a purpose. 

But now she’s proud and strong, and her body finally shows that.

As he stands there, unmoving, she gets up on her hands and knees and crawls to him. When she reaches him, her hands travel up his chest to rest on each side of his keel. Her lips touch his. Plump flesh that dimples when pressure is applied. He knows that much from watching her bite down softly on them. Or press a finger to them, deep in thought. Her lips are so new, so different from anything he’s ever felt. When she draws away from him, her eyes landing on his, an excited breath escapes him. 

Based on the smile on her face, and the way her green eyes sparkle with passion, he knows just how satisfied she is by that soft, brief kiss. 

Humbled by her strength and beauty, and the mere fact that _she_ wants this with _him_ , he falls to his knees at the foot of the bed. He’s just at the right height to bury his nose and mouth into her stomach. He nuzzles against her delicate skin, drags his tongue from her hip to her rib tasting salt and something sweeter and softer. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck as the tip of his tongue reaches her rib.

His hand lands on one of hers, taking her little fingers to gently guide her to stroke his nape. Her fingers follow his direction. Soft, small fingertips dance across his skin drawing out a deep, satisfied growl that ripples through his chest. 

As he takes her in his arms, leans her back to lie flat on the bed and beneath him, she continues to stroke softly. His eyes stay locked on her, drowning in the depths of her soul. A flash of pleasure lights up within her as his hips drive her thighs apart. 

Lying like this is infinitely superior to their first time together. They are wrapped around each other, arms and legs, just like he wanted. And staring into her eyes, her staring back, is so incredibly intimate it immediately breaks down any reservations he’s had. At that moment he knows he can trust her. He can be tender with her. 

His subvocals leap up then, rumbling in affection and desire. She presses her palm to his chest, honing in on the exact origin where his subvocals are created before they travel throughout his body in waves. Her eyes close for just a moment like she’s focusing on the way his body is vibrating and his subvocals are singing for her. She’s savoring it in a way that a turian would never think to. 

Her eyes ease open but her hand stays on his chest. “Tell me, before we go any further. Will you regret this?” she whispers, her eyes searching his to make sure he’s honest with himself and with her. “The way you looked at me after Omega...the way you’ve been looking at me ever since…Do you want to now, without shame or regret?”

Shame induced heat warms his neck. He brushes a talon against her cheek, hoping to wash all that worry away with a simple touch. Spirits guide him, he wasn’t good with words, he’d never be able to use them to convince her that his doubts were the mistake, not what they’d done together in his armory room. He knows that now. As his mind stumbles she waits for his answer. 

“I...yeah.”

As her penetrating gaze studies him he groans internally and nearly chokes on the additional useless and ridiculous words that his fumbling mind musters. 

In a moment of pure impulse and desperation to convince her of his certainty and affection, he presses his nose gently to hers, then drags his lips against hers. They both still, breaths heavy and lifting against each other. 

The heavy breathing makes him very aware of his body and hers. They’re both hot and slick. As he inches past his plates he instantly presses against her. She’s ready and waiting for him.

“Show me, then, if you can’t tell me with words.” She tilts her hips, guiding him to slide past her entrance. “My body has missed yours since the moment you pulled away from me on Omega.” 

Blood rushes as his need to be inside her surges. He’s eager to make up for that mistake. 

“I want you, Jane.” He presses his mouth to her neck, which she tilts aside for him. He licks a trail up her throat, using his body and his words to tell her again, “I want you.”

As those simple words fall past his lips her hold around him tightens. She gasps as he licks at her skin again. “Those are pretty good words,” she murmurs. That makes them both smile and relax 

He pushes his thighs against hers, using them to spread her legs wider. She’s completely open for him now so that he can inch into her, allowing her to stretch. She’s unbelievably tight, just like she was back on Omega. 

Slowly pressing deeper. Pressure builds down on him. As he drives in her spine arches, stretching her body out under him. 

As he sets a steady pace rolling his insistent hips and feeds himself into her over and over, her eyes close and her head falls back. He can’t help but enjoy how easily she yields to him. It’s thrilling. She’s everything he wants. It’s selfish, it’s needy, but he has to know that he’s everything _she_ wants.

Each time he cocks his hips just so and kneads a spot deep within her she cries out in pure pleasure. 

“There?” he hums into her ear. As he hits the spot she writhes against him. He licks up her neck and nips her earlobe. The way that she swells against him makes him want to nip her again, so he runs his lips against the curve of her neck and nips down, quick and sharp. His breath catches when she swells against him again, her soft curves urging him on and teasing every inch of his plates and skin. 

She answers his question with a soft, pleading moan, but no words. Eyes closed, panting and rolling her hips in time with his, she seems incapable of using words. So her beautiful, begging voice has to satiate his need to know if he’s satisfying her. 

He holds her in his arms as he works into her, stretching her, pressing in and dragging out, sending shocks of pleasure through both of them. His muscles tense. Their bodies beg for more. Her fingers press into his nape and his back, pulling him in closer to her like she’s desperate for him. Her voice – every varied cry and moan – is delicious to his ears. 

He has to know exactly where she needs him. She deserves this, to be worshipped and adored. He nuzzles her cheek where the cybernetics glow. He has to show her just how much giving her this pleasure means to him. Suddenly her sounds aren’t enough to tell him how she wants him. He has to know. He needs to hear her speak for him. “Does that feel good, right there, Jane?” he asks, his voice straining because his body is singing desperate subvocals for her. He cocks his hips upwards again, her warmth tightening around him as he presses in deeper. 

She moans louder this time, her breaths washing over his neck. “ _Yes_.” 

That sends his mind reeling, body chasing after its release and he’s determined to push her towards hers. Her hips begin to roll and twitch as her muscles tighten, begging to be pushed over the edge. Her folds clench down around him, and she’s so damn tight he begins to breathe in short huffs. 

He growls as his body races towards his release. She cries for him, says his name, clings to him and he can feel her folds spasm around him as she comes. She’s so tight that he falls then, too, right behind her. Allowing his body to take over as his mind rushes with numbing satisfaction, his hips pump into her, driven by an insatiable desire. 

They moan softly through the last clenches of their release. He holds the back of her head tight within his hand and lowers his crest to her forehead, pressing lightly as their breaths quiet. It’s such an incredibly intimate thing to do, but she might not know just what it means for a turian to press their crest to another’s. He needs it. Needs to feel that he’s giving her his body and mind and that she could maybe give the same to him. 

Still huffing soft breaths he falls to her side. Before he has a chance to miss the pressure of her warm body against his she crawls into his arms and holds him tight. They lie side-by-side kissing, nuzzling, and gazing into each other's eyes. Their fingers, his three and her five, tangle and untangle. Tips of fingers brush against tips of fingers. Palm presses to palm. 

The effect her touch has on him doesn't wear off. His skin continues to tingle and his heart dances like he’s never felt before. 

He adores her and wants to be joined to her. _Now and forever_ , he thinks to himself. Just days ago his best friend, his commander, was dead. And now she’s here. Lying naked in his arms and looking up at him like she needs him. He’s never seen her look so peaceful and happy. 

He’ll do whatever is in his power to keep it that way. Protect her when she falters. Heal her when she breaks. 

He remembers the poem she recited on the shuttle and her fear as she watched Purgatory explode. Cupping her small jaw in his hand he tells her, "I'll give you pleasure, Jane. And I'll chase away all the pain." 

She looks up at him, her eyes full of trust and affection. She nods, accepting his declaration. "And I will for you too," she says with strength and conviction. Her hand wraps around the back of his neck and they press their heads together again. 

He sleeps in her cabin that night. They stay wrapped all around each other. A connection between them wound tight and secure. 


End file.
